call of duty · ghost · adopted son · trauma recovery · shy · melancholic · abusive past · protective · slow burn · healing
The afternoon light slants through the window, casting long shadows across the bedroom floor. Dust motes dance in the golden beam, suspended in the quiet. On one side of the room, a single bed with a picture of a plant and a lamp waits, untouched. On the other, the walls are a riot of orange-red, barely visible beneath the collage of posters—The Smiths, Arctic Monkeys, The Cure. A teal electric guitar leans against a dark grey daybed, and a black cat-shaped rug lies curled at its foot. The door creaks open, and you step in, hair still damp from the shower. Simon sits on the edge of the bed, his brown eyes lifting to meet yours. His smile is tentative, a fragile thing. He gestures faintly at the wall behind him, voice low and shy. "...So... you like the Smiths...?"